Batsh*t crazy

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”

From The Catcher in the Rye,

by J.D. Salinger

Me, age 41
Jane, age 12
Owen, age 9

Every year, I give up swearing up for Lent.

When I’m not knee-deep in these 40 days of solemn religious observance, I’ve been known to have a mouth like a sailor. (Never in front of my kids – but get me behind a closed door and I will let an f-bomb fly.) I’d like to think that Lent is a chance for me to purify myself, much like Jesus’s fasting in the wilderness, but I can only conclude that Jesus was a much better person than I. Because, oh Lord, I’m struggling without those razor-sharp words in my verbal arsenal.  

A few years ago, researchers from The Journal of Pain and a British university conducted studies on swearing and found that it can provide effective, natural, short-term pain relief. Participants in the studies were able to withstand an ice-cold water challenge for a longer length of time if they repeatedly uttered swear-words than if they repeated a neutral word. The researchers figured out that swearing helped the participants withstand the pain because of the emotional response (anger, aggression, etc.) the swearing produced. This emotional response actually led to a surge in adrenaline much like the body’s natural fight or flight response. The researchers called it “stress-induced analgesia.” I call it magnificent.

I never wholly appreciate this stress-induced analgesia until I am forced to live without it. Which, of course, is the case right now. It’s a real challenge for me, because there have already been multiple times today where a swear-word has begun to form on my lips. I’ve been able to choke all of them back, but I acutely miss the blissful sense of liberation that comes from hurling those plump, ripe curses into the atmosphere.    

My day started at the crack of dawn with my son, Owen. His desire to play Pokémon cards with his friends on the playground is so godda** intense that he sometimes wants to go to school a full hour before it begins. Today was one of those days. I had to physically block his way so he couldn’t walk out the door. Glowering, I held him by the shoulders and firmly reminded him that: 1. No one else would be hanging out on the school playground an hour before school. 2. It is technically against the rules to hang out on the playground (sans adult) until 15 minutes before school starts. My son holds little regard for rules or common sense, so I found myself in one of our oil-and-water arguments that always makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

Midway through this quarrel, it dawned on me that I needed to switch gears entirely and run upstairs to rouse my daughter. Unlike Owen, Jane does not like getting up. I know she’s at the age where she should be more responsible for herself, but these days I have to be a total bit** for her to even attain consciousness: I shout at her for a little while, pull back her covers, turn on all the lights in the bedroom, etc. This particular morning, moving at a glacial speed, Jane was not anywhere close to being ready (no breakfast, no teeth-brushing, homework scattered about, etc.) when her ride pulled into our driveway. The swear-words were knocking around in my brain, and I had to do some deep yoga breathing to stay in control. 

Being a mom is hard enough. Factor in a couple wacko kids and a morning from he**, and it makes me want to lose my sh*t.

I’m not sure why I torture myself every year by giving up effective, natural, short-term pain relief that is proven by researchers. I’d like to imagine that it somehow makes me a better person. But who am I kidding? Only 30 more fu**ing days until Easter. 

“There had been a Tupperware container of bad language sitting off to the side in her head, and now she’d opened it and all those crisp, crunchy words were lovely and fresh, ready to be used."

From The Husband’s Secret,

by Liane Moriarty  

Oldies

Me, age 41
Caroline, age 12
Jane, age 12

One of the more distressing aspects of my daughters growing up is that they now take turns sitting in the front seat of the car while I drive. Sometimes it’s nice having them next to me – except when it comes to the radio.

It is almost comical how they flip through station after station – repeatedly, relentlessly – until they find an acceptable song to listen to. I try to pick my battles with them; this is one I have given up, but it drives me crazy. 

I wish they would land on a decent station and just stick with it, but they press that evil little “seek” button with all their might, hurtling their way through a jumble of static and commercials and obnoxious DJs, assaulting me with an annoying amount of noise pollution. But I’m even more bothered by the fact that I cannot seem to figure out what, to them, constitutes a suitable song. Based on their past preferences, I’ve tried to come up with some sort of algorithm to help me determine what they like/don’t like so I can anticipate their next move (Will they keep the station on Adele’s “Hello” or should I gear up for a switch?), but the only data I’ve collected consists of the following:

• They used to like Justin Bieber, but now he is intolerable. (Which is a shame because I think his new song, “Sorry,” is super catchy.)
• Taylor Swift is a huge no.
• Selena Gomez is a maybe.
• Thumbs up to Ellie Goulding, Sia, The Weeknd, and Demi Lovato.
• All of the above statements are subject to change without notice.   

As if this isn’t maddening enough, there’s more: depending on the day, my daughters aren’t always in agreement with each other about what is cool/not cool to listen to. For example, this is a typical exchange between Daughter in Front Seat and Daughter in Back Seat:

Daughter in Back Seat (clearly frustrated by inability to hover over the “seek” button as evidenced by indignant sighing): “Can you turn the station? I hate this song.”    

Daughter in Front Seat (clearly relishing having control of the radio as evidenced by smug look on face): “I like this song. Wait until you’re in the front seat and then you can listen to whatever you want.”

And so on. All while I long to be alone in my car, listening to the soothing voices of NPR.

Notably, there is one thing that my girls remain in complete solidarity about. It’s their abhorrence of what they call “the oldies.” To me, the oldies are the Stones, the Beatles, the Eagles and Zeppelin. Classic rock that has stood the test of time with its enduring awesomeness. Right?

Nope. My girls consider the oldies to be anything circa 2000, give or take. This means they pretty much despise every song from the 80s and 90s that defined my childhood and adolescence. As they sail up and down the FM dial, I’ll hear a scrap of a melody that conjures up memories so rich I can taste them, and they will flip the station without a second thought. Modern English’s “I Melt With You”, REM’s “Shiny Happy People”, Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round”, ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry”, Rush’s “Tom Sawyer”, Indigo Girls’ “Galieo.” All of them, scorned. My heart, crushed.

Now and then I try to pipe in with a subtle suggestion – “Hey, girls, why don’t you keep this song on for just a minute or two?” – but they look at me with disdain. “That’s an oldie, Mom,” they say. “We don’t listen to oldies.”

***

I always hear people say that age is relative. To their point, most of the time I don’t feel old. Usually, I still feel like my younger self, just masquerading as a mom and wife with responsibilities, a job, and laundry to do. Even though my daughters would argue that I am ancient (their word), it seems like only yesterday I was cruising around with my best friends from high school, singing BoDeans’ “Good Things” at the top of our lungs.

I suppose I should enjoy these days of carting around my girls and being the target of their banter. Because before I know it, they will be old enough to drive themselves.

Speech bubble

Me, age 41
Jane, age 12

I am sad to report that my daughter’s head resembles an oil slick.

I love her to bits, but I am totally grossed out by the greasy sheen of her hair, which was once – before the dawn of these rocky tween years – soft and clean-looking.

I attribute most of her greasiness to hormones, but I’ve certainly wondered if she’s doing a sufficient job of shampooing/conditioning/rinsing/etc. As a result, I have not only asked her to provide me with specific details of what goes on behind the shower curtain, but I’ve actually given her a hands-on tutorial of how things should shake down. (You can imagine the vigorous eye-rolling on her part during this particular conversation.) Regrettably, nothing makes a difference. So, as a mom, I guess I have no choice but to embrace the stage she’s at, greasy hair and all.  

What I can’t seem to get over, though, is what other people are thinking when they look at her: That girl really needs to wash her hair. What kind of mom lets her daughter out of the house looking like that? Take a shower, kid. And so on and so forth.

I have the potential to drive myself crazy dwelling on this, so I stop and think of my good friend Shannon. The mom of three boys, Shannon believes our lives would be infinitely easier if we could just employ speech bubbles above our heads. These speech bubbles would follow us around and communicate key information to the general public that we wish to convey but don’t have the time or energy or guts to say on our own. Shannon is smart.

If I could magically have a speech bubble right now, it would say:

Yes, I know my daughter’s hair is greasy. She takes showers, but her hormones are on overdrive. Please remember how awkward it is to exist in a pre-teen body. I’m sure you were no beauty queen at this age. 

Just imagining these words bobbing above my head brings me a degree of tranquility and composure as I spend each day with my daughter and her enthusiastic sebaceous glands.

I’ve talked to other friends about Shannon’s splendid idea and they all love the idea of having speech bubbles – because really, what mom hasn’t been stuck in a situation where the spoken word is difficult, inaccessible, or not entirely appropriate?

The friends I chatted with were quick to offer creative and painfully spot-on examples of the speech bubbles they wish they could utilize during their more uncomfortable and frustrating moments. Here is a sampling:  

Nothing to look at here, people. Keep moving.

I appear less sensitive than I am.

I really love my baby, but today he is really annoying me.

Please be kind. My life is hard.

I could use a kind word.

I look more capable of life than I actually am.

I want MY mommy.

Could a giant hole please open up, NOW?

One friend went a little deeper with her speech bubble:

Boys have emotions, too. People say, ‘You’re lucky to have boys. They’re so much easier. Girls are so emotional.’ But trust me, my boys are emotional too. They are just taught by society that they have to hide it.  

And finally, another of my friends (with a particularly great sense of humor) told me about the speech bubble she often relies on when interacting with her own children:

I know I’m supposed to care about what you’re saying right now, but I don’t.

***

I love having a speech bubble. Even if no one is reading it, I’m more mentally balanced knowing that I can toss my words up into it and they’ll stick there. Just like they would in my sweet daughter’s hair.